


Your Moon Will Rise, Bone White Following the Movement of Your Spine

by s4ffy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional release sex, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, angry fucking, bellamy is a wreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 05:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20595710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s4ffy/pseuds/s4ffy
Summary: Try as he might, he could never outrun the feeling of skin sitting too tight on his bones, too hot to let him breathe. He itched, wanted to tear at his skin until he’s red and raw and naked and the feeling dissipates ... For the first time, throwing punches does nothing to release the tightness in his spine and he closes his eyes against the storm in his head. //He was a pot about to boil over. He was angry, exhausted, wound up too tight. Bellamy just needs a release.





	Your Moon Will Rise, Bone White Following the Movement of Your Spine

**Author's Note:**

> been sitting in my drafts for a long time and i can't figure out why i don't like it, so u might as well just have it lmao
> 
> title from typhoon by iris temple

He’d agreed to come out tonight in an attempt to stop fretting over the rejection letter he’d received from the University he’d wanted to get his PhD at, the promotion he’d been passed over for at the job he’d worked himself to the bone for, as well as the way Octavia had escalated their earlier fight in a way that had never happened before. Sometimes he felt as if he’d never escape the trapped eleven year old boy who was always told he’d never amount to anything. Maybe everyone was right, and he’d been lucky to even get this far, let alone aspiring for more. The beers weren’t working as a balm like he’d hoped they would. The company he was with wasn’t enough to pull him from his thoughts and the noise of the bar wasn’t distracting him like he’d wanted, instead it was overwhelming him, threatening to drown him.

He felt Clarke’s eyes on him for the hundredth time that evening and studied the bottom of his glass so he wouldn’t see the concern that had only grown more prominent since she had arrived a few hours ago and felt that something was off with him.

Her foot - bare after her dramatic shoe flinging when she announced that her heels were hurting too much to bear - nudged his under the table and stroked up his calf to elicit a smile, a response, a nudge back.

On an ordinary day, he would laugh; maybe kick her back to escalate it into a game of footsie, and doggedly ignore the heat in his stomach as her bare foot teased his shin under the table.

But today, on top of everything else that had happened, he felt his annoyance at her grow, even though the rational part of his brain knew he was a dick for it because it wasn’t her fault he was in love with her and she didn’t feel the same way. It wasn’t her fault that it took every inch of his willpower to not kiss her when she was snuggled up against him on the couch, full up on takeout, the dim light of the TV making her small living room intimate and cosy. It wasn’t her fault he felt a pang every time she’d fallen asleep at his place and he’d carried her to his bed, pressing a soft kiss to her hair before dragging himself back to his couch, fighting every instinct in him that told him to curl up next to her instead. It wasn’t her fault that today, dealing with the heartache of wanting so much more than the world told him he deserved, was just too much for him to handle.

He stood abruptly and the table fell silent at the suddenness of his action.

“I’m tired,” he lied, “and I’ve got an early start at work tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head home for the night.” He couldn’t bear the weight of everyone’s eyes on him so he bit out a smile that he hoped was believable enough and waved in their general direction, feeling his chest grow tight, before hightailing out of the bar and into the frigid drizzle on the street.

He gasped in several deep breaths, feeling the icy air fill his lungs but not doing much to assuage the heat prickling beneath his skin, making his fingers twitch, a strange buzz in his bones.

He was no stranger to this feeling. It was his constant companion when he was young, after his mother brought home another guy he would have to protect Octavia from; after his mother drunk herself into a stupor every time he left the house using money he’d hidden to pay the bills; after Octavia pushed back and resented him even though he was just trying to keep her safe. Back then, he’d get into fights and quickly got good enough to never lose when he learned the hard way that resetting broken bones was too expensive without health insurance. He let his anger act as an anaesthesia for every bruise and cut, until his Principle pulled him out of class and told him he had a real shot at getting scholarships if he cleaned up his record. After that, he turned to sex and it worked just as well all the way through college until the sting of his childhood wasn’t quite so sharp and he’d managed to make something of himself despite it all.

But try as he might, he could never outrun the feeling of skin sitting too tight on his bones, too hot to let him breathe. He itched, wanted to tear at his skin until he’s red and raw and naked and the feeling dissipates.

He stands outside the bar and for a brief moment, considers taking an Uber home. It’s cold out and Clarke would scold him for staying out in the cold for so long, calling him a hypocrite for always fretting over everyone else but never himself, but he doesn’t want to go back to his dark, empty apartment and sit full of restless energy.

He turns homeward bound, his pace speeding up without him realising, until he’s sprinting, feet soggy and already starting to blister in his old converse. Twenty minutes later as he nears his apartment block, he lets out an angry growl and comes careening to a stop against the wall of his building. His breath is coming in laboured pants, he’s soaked through from the rain water and sweat mixing in the winter air until he’s shivering with it.

He lets his forehead drop against the brick, relishing the cold scrape against his skin. It’s not enough. He’s still for several seconds and then, with a guttural yell, pulls back and strikes the wall twice in quick succession. For the first time, throwing punches does nothing to release the tightness in his spine and he closes his eyes against the storm in his head.

“Bell?” Clarke’s small and tentative voice sends a shock of iciness down his back, fog clearing in his head for a moment. He takes several deep breaths, cradling his bloody fist in his other hand, trying to calm down before he takes it all out on her, trying to see past the curtain of red tunnelling his vision. His legs tremble for movement.

He needs to run again. Needs to feel the burn in his muscles, needs the distraction of his lungs screaming for air as he pushes his body beyond the brink of exhaustion until he’s drained of everything. Until the soreness of his body gives way to numbness and the raging thoughts inside his head gives way to blessed emptiness, allowing him to fall into a deep sleep.

“Please leave, Clarke.” He grits out, still unable to turn and look at her. “I don’t want you to see me like this – I’m not – This isn’t supposed to be me anymore.”

She spots his battered fist and gasps. “Bellamy…” she trails off and he closes his eyes against the sadness in her voice.

“I need to be alone right now.” He begs of her.

She takes a step towards him. “Let’s go inside,” she urges, “I’ll clean you up.” Her hand reaches out to touch him and he jerks away from her like she’s fire, and then steels his heart against the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“Just go, Clarke,” he snaps, “I don’t want you here.” He’s afraid of how he might damage their relationship if she stays, and losing Clarke, losing what they have would be the most painful wound of all.

Her shoulders tighten, dropping into her battle stance instinctively and she levels him a cool glare. “Sorry for caring about you and wanting you to be alright.” She snaps back.

He knows that whatever comes out of his mouth right now, he’ll regret in the morning and the last thing he ever wants to do it hurt her, but old habits die hard and maybe he’s not as changed a man as the thought. “For fuck sake Clarke, why do you always think you know best? For once in your life, can you just let your fucking hero complex go and leave me alone?” he yells.

She blinks at him affronted and lets out a dark chuckle, “Hero complex?” she repeats, astounded, “That’s rich, coming from –“ she breaks off and takes a deep breath. Opens her mouth, then closes it again and sighs. “I hate seeing you like this.” She says softer, and he’s ashamed to admit he wished she would argue with him like she used to instead of being the bigger person. 

“I’m having a bad day.” His lips twist, “A bad month.” He corrects and tries to shut out a replay of years of late nights killing himself at his job to pay his and Octavia’s way through college, and then coming home and studying for his part time degree until the early hours of the morning while Octavia swanned around barely passing her classes. He knew it would get better – it _had_ to – but right now it was just too much.

“You can talk to us, you know.” She says tightly, “We could help if you’d just ask.”

“What?” he demands. “What exactly could you do to help?” 

“God, Bellamy, I don’t know because you never tell us! Maybe just be there for you! If you’d just let your friends help you instead of pushing them away, maybe you’d see that things don’t have to be like this, but you just have to be a self-sacrificing martyr, don’t you? You don’t have to carry everything on your own. But you’re too stubborn to see that.” she says irritably.

“How?!” he yells. “How is talking about the fact that my sister doesn’t appreciate a single thing I’ve done for her, and is throwing her life away in some weird gang going to help me, when all I’ve worked for my entire life is to protect her from the life I had to live and give her the opportunities I never had?” he steps closer to her and takes a ragged breath which puffs out into the cold air. “How is talking about the fact that my boss dangled this promotion in front of me like bait so I did more overtime than I could cope with, and then gave it to some white family friend, gonna _help_ me?" 

“If you’d come to me, I’d have told you that you deserve so much more! So much more than a sister who treats you like dirt and a job that’s below you!”

“Yeah, because words really are going to fix my fucked up, worthless life!”

Her eyes have gone soft and she hasn’t budged an inch even though he’s basically shouting in her face, and he feels terrible about it, but also he can’t stand the pity in her eyes. They’re standing so close, chest to chest, and he can feel the heat radiating off her through their damp clothes and then she bites her lip and her blue eyes grow impossibly dark as her pupils dilate and something in him snaps and he yanks her to him, pausing nose to nose, making his intentions clear so that she has plenty of time to shove him away, before pressing his mouth to hers in a hot, bruising kiss.

Her hands immediately tangle in his hair, the sting of it a sweet relief from the pressure lodged in his chest and he devours her lips in a messy, wet kiss, teeth clacking together almost painfully as he licks his way into her mouth.

She pulls away to stare into his eyes. "I'm not going to break," she breathes and he catches her gaze, dark eyes swirling with emotions she can't name. Whatever he's looking for in her face, he seems to find, yanking her mouth back to his and wrapping a hand around her throat. 

They stumble and collide against the nearest surface – the wall that he had punched only minutes before – and he slams her against the rough surface, but not before placing a hand behind her head to cushion the impact. Her hands snake under his shirt and scrape down his back, leaving reddening scratches down his spine. His thigh slips between her legs, trapping her against the wall and she grinds down on his firm, muscled leg, desperate for friction.

“Bellamy,” she whimpers and hearing his name from her lips in that way makes his heart swell in a way he doesn’t quite know what to do with at that moment.

He bites her bottom lip hard enough that he tastes blood and would feel bad, if it wasn’t for the way her nails were piercing the skin on his shoulders. Nosing his way down her throat and neck, he gets his hands under her flimsy shirt, yanking down the cups of her bra to twist her nipples meanly. She lets out a reedy, guttural moan and arches impossibly closer to him. The cuts on his hands are sore, but he ignores it in favour of popping the buttons of her top and pushing her breasts together so he can bury his face in them, pressing tiny kisses and sucks to the ample flesh. Her hand is twisted in his hair, pulling to direct his mouth to where she wants. He presses his erection into her stomach to relieve some of the ache.

The angry buzz in his head has vanished, awareness narrowed down to just this, just the two of them and Clarke’s body and her tiny moans and racing pulse and desperate pants and the way her breath hitches every time he touches her in the right places.

She’s wearing a tight leather skirt and he struggles to part her legs wide enough to fit a hand into her knickers. He manages to easily slip a finger inside her - she's already wet and wanting, and rubs firmly over her clit, his hand movements limited by the close proximity of her soft thighs.

Her forehead drops to his shoulder, unable to muster the energy to keep herself upright, leaning into him completely. His muscles scream in protest at the awkward angles he’s forced into but he likes the way it distracts him from the tempest in his mind.

He makes her come like that for the first time, frantic fingers working between her legs, sealing his mouth over her lips to taste the sound of her pleasure. She shudders in his arms and climaxes, biting his lip hard to keep from crying out. He doesn’t cease his ministrations until she’s stopped shaking and clamps her thighs over his hands to still their movement, unable to take any more stimulation.

She doesn’t take long to recover, dropping to her knees and fiddling with his belt. He takes a second to look at her, just look – eyes dark and shiny, cheeks flushed the same colour as her chest, swollen red lips, shirt half open and skirt hiked up as far as it can go. His heart pounds unsteadily in his chest. She deserves so much more than someone like him, deserves so much more than he can ever hope to give. Guys like him don’t get to end up with girls like her. He squeezes his eyes against the insidious whispers in his head, and hauls her off her knees. She squeaks in surprise against his mouth.

“Upstairs.” He growls, as he ducks slightly to dust the gravel from her knees, before dragging her to the entrance of his building.

Somehow, barely parting their lips enough to walk, they make it to the elevator. 

Her fingers are wrapped around his dick by the time he manages to fumble the door open, and he’s stripping the shirt off her body before the door is even shut. She pulls away to dig around in the small clutch dangling from her shoulder, triumphantly pulling out a condom, before dropping the bag to the floor.

He yanks the skirt down her thighs along with her knickers, directing her to life one leg and then the other so she can step out of them, running one hand over the skin he exposes as he goes, following his fingers with the pointed tip of his tongue, then pulls his shirt over his head, discarding of both articles into the corner. 

Her hands push his chest, guiding him to his bedroom, falling backwards onto the bed and pulling him with her. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against her centre.

“Oh, fuck.” She sobs when he grinds against her. “Fuck me, Bellamy, please.” She begs, using her toes to shove his pants down far enough to release his thick, hot cock. She strokes him as he fiddles with the wrapper of the condom, and then grabs it from him before he can put it on himself.

He pulls her up and twists so that she’s on her knees, a firm hand on her back guiding her to rest her forearms on the bed, reaching to unsnap her bra so her breasts spill free.

He reaches between her thighs to brush his fingers between the slickness of her lips, testing how wet she is. When he's satisfied that she's ready enough, he groans as he pushes into her with a mean, quick snap of his hips and he hears a muffled keen from where her face is buried in his pillow. One of her hands flies up to play with her nipples. He doesn’t give her time to adjust to the intrusion, thrusting into her with deep, rapid strokes.

He wraps his fingers around her waist hard enough to bruise to stop her from sliding up the bed with the force of his thrusts, one hand tangling in her hair and pulling so her neck stretched backwards.

The only sounds are their harsh panting, breathless moans and the slap of their skin against each other. Pressure builds at the base of his spine, threatening to unspool at any moment.

“Fuck, Bellamy, yes.” she gasps, head thrown back in frenzied delight as he drops a hand to caress her clit. It doesn’t take her long to peak again, eyes squeezed shut as the tight coil in her belly springs loose. She moans through her release, walls clenching down rhythmically on him. He grunts, trying to hold out for just a little longer, until she rises up so her back is flush with his chest, reaching backwards over her head to tangle her fingers in his hair and tug. She turns her face to press sloppy kisses to his cheeks and the corner of his mouth, and he comes undone with a huff.

He rests his forehead against her skull for several long seconds, before tugging her into his arms and passing out, emotionally and physically drained.

.:.

He wakes with a start, in the milky blue light before the sun has properly risen. Clarke is curled up into the heat of his body, arms tucked between her chest and his. She looks stunning, face relaxed and soft, golden hair spanning his pillow. His heart begins to pound unsteadily as he spots the bruises lining her neck and arms. And those are just the visible ones. He freezes when he sees blood smeared on her back. With shaking fingers, he lifts his hands to examine the scabs from where he punches the wall. He feels disgusted with himself. 

Gently slipping out from under the sheets, he pulls on some boxers and a t shirt, trying to tiptoe around so he doesn’t wake her.

He pads to the kitchen and stares out the window into the grey morning air. His hands are cold, and he puts on coffee, just for something to do.

He feels sick to his stomach. Of all the ways to deal with his rage, fucking his best friend like she was another meaningless college one night stand was probably the worst.

His chest begins to tighten. He had learned long ago that his way of dealing with this anger was only a temporary fix, and it was still true. Only now, he wasn’t feeling any better _and_ he’d most likely just ruined his friendship with Clarke beyond repair.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Clarke until her arms wrap around his stomach from behind, and she presses her forehead into his spine.

“Morning,” she hums into his t-shirt. “You’re up early.” His hands reach up to clasp hers and swallows, not sure if he’s brave enough to face her. He twists in her arms anyway.

“Hey,” his voice is scratchy and he has to clear it. “Listen, I’m so sorry about last night. I didn’t…” he trails off, unsure of what to say and _how_ to say it.

She frowns. “Why are you sorry?” She worries her lip with her teeth.

“I didn’t mean to – I didn’t want…” He’s never felt less articulate in his life.

“Didn’t want to have sex with me?” Hurt flashes across her face and she arches an eyebrow, stepping back.

“Yes. No!” He shakes his head, trying to gather some sense into it. “I just – I don’t want it to be like that with you.” He whispers, casting his gaze down as he makes the admission.

“You mean rough and dirty?” She cups his face in her hand and tilts it so she can meet his eyes. “You don’t see me complaining.”

“It’s not supposed to be like that with you. I don’t want to treat you like a girl I fuck to get out of my own head. You’re not…” he takes a breath. “You mean more than that to me.” 

She tilts her head and looks at him with soft, blue eyes. “I know.” She says gently. “And I know what you needed last night. And I’m glad I get to be the one to help you.” She smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“I love you,” he murmurs after a brief pause, feeling abruptly on the verge of tears.

“I know.” She repeats, and he pulls her closer to bury his nose into the soft skin of her neck. She runs her hands through his hair soothingly.

“I mean it,” his voice is muffled, “I don’t deserve you. I don’t believe I get to have something this wonderful." He nuzzles into the junction of her throat and shoulder, "I love you.” 

“I love you too,” she presses a kiss to the crown of his head, "But you don't get to decide what you or don't deserve." She holds him as he tries to clench back tears. The last few months have been so hard and full of hurdles, but they don’t hold a candle to the peace and contentment he feels in her arms.

Fighting, running, sex – they never soothed his soul the way he wished them to, the way he needed. But this - the way he can feel her love through the tenderness of her embrace, the way she sways slightly to comfort him – that’s what his troubled mind needed, that’s how the dark storm in his heart is quieted.

“You wanna go for round two?” she asks cheekily. “I’m on top this time.” He grins into her shoulder and nips playfully.

“In a bit. I just want this. I just want to hold you for a bit longer.”

She’d always been like the sun to him; having her around was enough to brighten his day, the warmth of her presence enough to ease the cold dread in his chest. Now, she’d managed to tie herself to his heart and pressed closer to him when he forgot how to breath.

He may not feel like he’s worthy of something as special as this – as her – but he will spend the rest of his life trying to give her the undying love and devotion she deserves.


End file.
